


La cathédrale

by Apsacta



Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: Gen, Holding Hands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apsacta/pseuds/Apsacta
Summary: Eddy knows them like he knows his own, those hands, only slightly removed. It’s an awareness brought in by practiced observation, by years of them just being there. A habit.
Relationships: Eddy Chen & Brett Yang, Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	La cathédrale

**Author's Note:**

> Titled after this: [ _http://www.musee-rodin.fr/fr/collections/sculptures/la-cathedrale_](http://www.musee-rodin.fr/fr/collections/sculptures/la-cathedrale)

There’s a brilliance, Eddy sometimes thinks, to the way that Brett’s hands move – almost like a form of magic. It’s there, in the little things, details, like the way the morning light grazes at his fingertips, contours and highlights the dip at his wrist, the trembling of his pulse. A life of their own, then, projecting silhouettes like fluttering birds against his walls.

It’s there too in the orange glow of the setting sun, with the way the shadows spread on his skin, knuckles and veins, mountains and rivers, the way his fingers stretch, capable and skilled, patient. So patient. It’s there in the half-light of a dimly lit hotel room, clumsy and tired, in the soft hue of dawn, lazy and quiet, in the bright light of the midday sun, hazy, impatient. 

It’s there all the time.

Eddy knows them like he knows his own, those hands, only slightly removed. He knows the way they are, in rest or motion, the muscles and the bones, from wrist to fingertips, knuckles and nails. It’s an awareness brought in by practiced observation, by years of them just being  _ there.  _ A habit.

It’s not quite fascination. But something akin to it maybe. Only softer, muted, or... not even that. It’s simply that he just likes to look. He just likes knowing. The way they wave off unimportant worries and keep close the things that matter. The way Brett’s thumb brushes against screens through mindless scrolling, the rhythm of his typing or that thing he does when he speaks, the way his fingers stretch over the span of an octave. Fingernails plucking at strings, pinkie curved on the bow. The way he presses on the strings, the calluses formed through the years.

It’s not as weird as it seems, although it has very little to do with the music they play, in the end. But it gives Eddy an excuse – a reason – to look.

It’s not that Eddy watches with intent, not that he wants something out of this. It’s just the little comfort of something familiar. Years pass and they grow, things change and they keep aging and time keeps passing. But the glow in those hands remains. A familiar anchor in changing seas. Eddy can count on them to remind him of what’s important.

There are touches sometimes, the press of a thumb at his pulse point or his own fingers circling around wrists, but it’s not quite that, not quite want yet.

He could, he thinks. Want that. Want something out of this, something more.

There are moments when the back of their hands brush, secret touches in crowds, feeling like home, moments when Brett’s knuckles find the inside of his wrist, when his thumb briefly meets Eddy’s palm.

Eddy could want other things too, maybe, in those moments. Those fingers that press at his shoulder in reassurance now, wandering at his neck or pushing past his lips, fluttering birds exploring skin, then. Maybe. In some other life, perhaps. An alternate timeline. Some other time, some other day. Later.

For now, he’s got these fingers brushing at his wrist, and they’re soft and they’re strong, before they slide down his palm, and it’s enough.

For now, he feels these fingernails grazing at his skin and following the length of his fingers, fingertips pressed to his for a second or two before slotting into place, familiar weight between his fingers, the gentle pressure at the back of his hand all too known. And it’s not quite want. It’s not quite fascination.

It’s love, probably.

It feels like it, anyway. Open and uncomplicated, like the space created between their palms. Safe. Protected.

And Eddy wants nothing, then. Needs nothing but the weight of Brett’s fingers in his and the feel of his palm against his. Just the touch of their skin and the trembling of their pulses, close enough to share.

It’s enough as it is. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Happy holidays. <3 
> 
> _« Je ne sais où va mon chemin,_   
>  _Mais je marche mieux quand ma main_   
>  _Serre la tienne. »_
> 
> _~_ Alfred de Musset, _À mon frère revenant d’Italie._


End file.
